15 Minutes
by Syn-c0p-e
Summary: PWP. An impromptu Birthday gift for Cuddy.  Set somewhere after Joy but Mayfield never happened.  Cuddy POV. Disclaimer: Oh come on! I know my imagination runs riot but even it doesn't run to thinking it has any claim to House MD!
1. Chapter 1

I know, I know. I should be working on TPS but this has been cluttering my mind for ages. Besides, it's short - 4 (ish) chapters so, it might be complete by the end of the year!

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A late morning in May.

A cafe somewhere in Princeton.

15 minutes – that's how much time I've had before he's found me. 15 minutes. You'd think he'd have had the decency to take 15 minutes to realise I'd left the hospital, but no, here he is lurking with intent outside the café. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I refuse to make eye contact. Perhaps if I pretend I can't see him he'll go away…? No, he's coming in. I sigh and stare mournfully at the cup of coffee I've just been served. I hope I can get rid of him quickly so I can enjoy it in peace.

"What do you want, House?" I try to forestall him from sitting down. Foiled again.

"Need you to sign off…" I interrupt him before he starts spinning out his not so well rehearsed lie.

"Really? You didn't have a patient 15 minutes ago."

"Just came in," he counters.

"And already you are deviating from standard procedures that you need sign off? That's truly amazing."

"Well, you know me and my super fast, well lubricated, pulsating diagnostic skills." He glanced outside. "It's a really aggressive form of fabricitus." Fabricitus, who's he kidding? No, he thinks I'm waiting for someone. Still a chance to nip this in the bud then.

"I'm not expecting anyone." I savour the aroma of my coffee before taking a sip. Mmmm, delicious.

"What?" Ahh, the great House comeback. I've caught him off guard.

"If you were expecting to butt in on one of my dates, your super fast, well lubricated pulsating diagnostic skills have erred. So, you can toddle off back to work." I made walking signs with my fingers.

He stared at my coffee, then back at my face. He glanced round the café.

"Why are you here?" Ooo, a puzzled House. I savour the occasion like I'm savouring my coffee. Unfortunately, a puzzled House is an immovable object and I want him gone.

"Having a cup of coffee." I try the simple truth.

"You can do that at work. Why are you 'here'?" I sigh dramatically.

"I just wanted a cup of 'real' coffee in a 'real' cup with a few minutes peace and quiet to savour it. Who knows maybe I'll get a few minutes to read the paper." He assessed me for a few moments.

"Good idea," he says, then signals the waitress and asks for a peppermint tea. I sigh, loudly.

"Go away, House."

"That's not very friendly."

"Neither is interrupting me time." His tea arrives in one of those glass mugs.

"Motherhood proving too arduous?"

"No."

"But you wanted me time? Interesting." He adds sugar to his tea and stirs it in. I can see it being agitated in the bottom of his glass. Or maybe that's irritated. He just opened the packet, dropped it in and stirred. The same way he stirs me – I mean agitates me - except that the sugar slowly dissolves in the tea so they become one while we… we do not. I ponder vaguely if there is a way for us to do the same. Could he agitate me so I dissolve into him or maybe the other way round? We certainly agitate each other but never dissolve. We must be incompatible. I wonder idly if I should add 'regretfully' to the start of that last sentence.

I give in to the inevitable and take another sip of my coffee letting the flavour swirl round my mouth and down my throat. I'm doing quite well at pretending he isn't there when he suddenly breaks the silence.

"It's your birthday." Should I be flattered that he's remembered… finally?

"Statement of the obvious - from you?"

"Shouldn't you be going somewhere… posh for lunch or going out to dinner?" Unfortunately, neither of these scenarios is likely. Unless I want to go to dinner with my mother I'm stymied for a dinner companion… unless I ask Wilson and the same applies for lunch. Although, that's got more to do with my intensely tight schedule as I try to squeeze more into my day so I can go home to Rachel at a reasonable hour. My planner allocates time in 15 minute slots and I'd arranged for half an hour out. Seven minutes to get here, seven minutes back, fifteen minute break, two minutes to spare.

"I'm treating myself to 15 minutes peace and quiet with a decent cup of coffee. Now, if you'd like to give me a gift - you'll go back to the hospital, now."

"I don't think that's much of a gift."

"Then add in some clinic duty for that extra value present."

"15 minutes to yourself…" he mused. "Shouldn't you be treating yourself to a sauna or a massage, new hairdo, manicure, pedicure, new dress, new make-up, sex…?" Sex? My mind toys with that thought for a second. Sex. On my Birthday. Chance would be a fine thing.

"Unlike you, I don't buy sex."

"I'll buy it for you – my treat, I ..."

"Using Wilson's credit card no doubt – no, thanks."

"You drive a hard bargain. Okay, I'll sacrifice myself to the cause – what do you think a minute for every year you admit to or you want to stick to the 15 minutes?"

My brain stalls and, for a brief moment, a very brief moment you understand, I consider his offer. That is what it is. An offer. A proposition. A proposal. A suggestion. Maybe a plan. More likely a scheme. Right mouse click on the word, select synonyms and they all pop up in the convenient Word thesaurus, which, by the way, comes in handy when trying to come up with a new word to replace 'illegal' for the next medical audit. Atypical, unusual, irregular, non-standard. Hope there's a few more in the next version because I've already used all of those several times.

But back to the 'offer' at hand. I avoid looking in his eyes. Watching him watch me fogs my mind making it far _too_ easy to say yes and we'd be doing a hop, skip and a limp out of here for a '15 minutes-ing' before my rational mind had caught up. Damn my rational mind! Then again, I think he just offered me 38 minutes – the age I'll admit to. 38 minutes… that would be just… but no point dwelling on it. House's recent history, with regards to me, is not to follow through.

"Do you come wrapped in a big red bow?" I extend the conversation a little. Despite my moans at him turning up, the time is passing quite pleasantly.

"No. You don't like the wrapping?" he says, looking down at himself.

"Somehow, it doesn't have that birthday look to it."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Birthday suits would be more in order." If only! I glance at him under my lashes as I take another sip of my coffee. He was being particularly persistent. Not unprecedented but unusual. But more unusual still, his eyes were smiling at me.

"So, do you want the gift or not?" House asks, his voice low and gravely. He did that on purpose. He must have done. I have never heard him talk to Wilson like that. He doesn't usually talk to me like that. Not even when he _really_ wants something. Usually that something involves deviating from standard procedure. Rarely has that something been… me.

"What constitutes '15 minutes'? We need to establish…" I begin to ask before I'm interrupted by a smirk and that low, gravely voice again.

"Jesus, Cuddy. You want a contract? 15 minutes is… 15 minutes," he says, as he goes back to lazily stirring his peppermint tea.

I watch his stirring in preference to his eyes. I watch his hand moving the spoon around and around, slowly and deliberately around and around, the sugar a tiny tornado at the bottom of the glass. I wonder if that hand with those long, skillful fingers could do that to me? Make me spiral around and around, stirred up into a frenzied whirlwind…

I pull myself out of the fantasy. I need the most effective avoidance strategy.

"Okay. 15 minutes," I say, swallow another mouthful of coffee, close my eyes to savour the taste and await his rapid exit tactic. I open them again as his spoon 'tinks' loudly on the bottom of the glass as it drops from his hand, after all the muscles simultaneously stopped working. As did those in his jaw. He closes his mouth, swallows and looks me up and down. I'm wearing a red, silk, low cut blouse and a black, pencil line skirt. I bet he's wondering what I've got on underneath.

Nevertheless, he's going to back out of it. He always does. Every time we get close, he skitters away like a terrified rabbit being chased by a ravenous, wily fox. It's fine while it's his game, but as soon as the roles are reversed and I'm the fox, it's exit stage right top speed.

I sit back into the vinyl booth with a squeak, cross my arms in front of me and await the great escape plan. How is he going to extract us from this this time? I can practically see the wheels spinning in his head as he tries to figure out how to dodge this.

He opens his mouth, which, by the way, is another reason to '15 minutes' with him, (which, if you ever saw him with a lollipop, I wouldn't need to explain), but nothing comes out for a few seconds. This is worrying. The formulation of an excuse to cut and run doesn't usually take this long. When I said okay, that is what I was counting on – that he'd get us both out of it.

I pick up my coffee and blow on it. Not that it needs cooling since it has long since reached a drinkable temperature and I've drunk more than half of it, but I need to do something to imply a sense of nonchalance. He's still watching me. His mouth is open again. He's still thinking. Should I be offended or not? I just offered myself to him, no conditions, and he's trying to get out of it. Then again, I don't want him not getting out of it, do I?

"I'll pay," he says, finally, swooping up the bills and signalling for the waitress. "Your place is closer but my place is unpopulated." The cup wobbles in my hand. He's bluffing. Talk about brinkmanship!

"Now! But I've got a meeting in… ten minutes," I say, glancing at my watch.

"It's only with Anderson. I rescheduled it before I came to find you."

Chink! Tink, tink, tink!

This time it isn't just a spoon. This time it's a whole cup of coffee hitting the damn saucer.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm doomed. I'm playing brinkmanship… with House over… What word does befit this type of occasion? Engage in sexual intercourse? Copulate? Fornicate? Those are such ugly words. Make love? Don't make me laugh. That sounds like something straight out of a Mills and Boon book. How about get intimate with? Sleep with? Or have an affaire d'amour? That's funnier than the making love bit. And there'll certainly be no sleeping or there better not be – not in a 15 minute time window. I could wax lyrical and say it is beyond words but then' I' would sound like I'm writing a Mills and Boon book. I look over at House. He's probably thinking fuck, screw, hump, beast with two backs. It's just sex, plain and simple. Except there is nothing just plain or simple about it!

So, I'm doomed. If I back out now, and, let me tell you, there's no way I'm backing out first, but if I did, House would make some sarky comment. And he 'wins'. And, more to the point, if House intends to follow through this time I'd lose out in more ways than one. If I make the first move, House can end this with a 'gotcha', embarrass me into the bargain and he 'wins'. Life lesson in 'careful what you agree to' in the first place. However, if neither of us 'blink' we could both win.

As the only way I can win is to out brink the brinkmaster, I'm standing my ground. Thing is, he does look deadly serious… right now bordering on irate. House doesn't know how to start a car. Rather, I know he knows how to start a car, but at the moment, he doesn't know how to start my car.

He has to have planned this, sorry as this is House, schemed this in advance – except he came on his motorbike. Disappointingly, unless I take this skirt off there's no way I can straddle the seat. So, despite the fact it would be faster and what girl wouldn't want a powerful, super fast, well lubricated, throbbing engine between her thighs as a warm up to '15 minutes', we'll have to take my car. House insisted on driving, something about me being too careful to be quick. I suspect he needs the activity to mask his nervousness. That's working out really well at the moment.

Come on House, starting a car's easy - insert key in the ignition and turn until it bursts into life leaving the engine purring. If he can't even do that, what's the chance of him getting me purring?

"Shall I drive?" I ask. Although I'm enjoying seeing a flustered House, if he takes much longer, it will all become a moot point. Leaving aside my other meetings this afternoon, I can't reschedule my two o'clock meeting – it's a board meeting. I know that's two hours from now but, still, at the rate he's going…

"No," he barks. I smirk. Finally, it turns over.

"Reverse," I yelp, as we narrowly miss the car in front.

"I know," he snaps, shifts it into the correct gear, manoeuvres out of the space, yanks it back into drive and floors it – all without looking at me.

He is definitely nervous. A cool, calmness descended over me as I soaked myself in coffee. You know how time slows down under certain stressful conditions? So, it was with a certain detachment that I watched the coffee spread across the table, over the edge and slosh onto my skirt. House was quick enough to slide sideways and avoid a similar fate. Shame, it could have been a good excuse to get his pants off – to check for scalding, you understand. Then again, it could have been a good excuse for him to beat a hasty retreat.

I switch on the cd player forgetting I had a B52s disc in there. He hates the B52s. I leave it on to see if he'll say anything. He seems oblivious.

He fiddles with the air conditioning unit. It's already at max and I can feel the icy air blowing out of the vents. There's a glistening layer of sweat on his forehead.

"Are you warm?" I ask, with a certain gleeful devilment.

He stops messing with the controls. Instead his fingers start drumming on the steering wheel. That lasts all of two minutes then his hand moves up to the neck of his t-shirt and he runs his finger round as if it's too tight. Shame he doesn't wear a tie. I'd love to unknot him and slip it off. I used to be good at it - and tying them. I imagine a quiet, shared, intimate moment just before we go back to work… who am I kidding? Intimate moment! I scoff to myself.

"House . . . that was my street," I say, as he drives right passed it. We decided to go to my house so I could change out of my coffee stained clothes. I know that black hides a multitude of sins but I don't want to reek of eau de coffee or even eau de sex for that matter, in a board meeting. That, and I know my nanny will have taken Rachel out for a stroll at this time of day.

"Shit! Why didn't you say something sooner?" he snaps.

"How many years have you known where my house is? You've managed to find it in various stages of being drunk, drugged or with skulduggery afoot, but now you don't know where I live? You should have said you need a navigator," I snark, which quickly turns into a squeak as he makes an illegal U-turn to head back towards my place. He screeches into the drive.

Despite the wrong turn we've made it in ten minutes. So we've got fifteen minutes to do the '15 minutes-ing' leaving fifteen minutes to get back to work. It should all fit in perfectly… in more ways than one! If House really intends to go through with it.


	3. Chapter 3

House is standing in my hall, not knowing what to do with himself. I'm looking at the blinking light on my answerphone. I resist the urge to press the button. It's either going to be my mother or one of my sisters wishing me a happy birthday. And the last thing you need to hear is your mother's voice just before you are going to… I look over at House who's still rooted to the spot.

I'm conscious of the fact I am damp around the thighs and not all of it in a good way. The coffee soaked skirt… and underwear, if that's not too much information, is cold and clammy against my skin.

"I'm going to change. My skirt is damp and I'll put it in to soak before…" I trail off, suddenly conscious of the fact I have given House several openings for innuendo. His eyes meet mine, his eyebrows rise then he smirks at me. Not only innuendo. How many people change their clothes and soak a stain before they '15 minute'? Especially when they are on a tight time line - only scheduling control freaks like me.

I stand there in front of him, fingers straightening out my skirt. Now what am I going to do? Should I go put on clean clothes just to take them off again in a few minutes? Are they going to come off again in a few minutes? Why is he just standing there? Is this part of the 15 minutes? I don't want to wander away from here, we might both come to our senses or he'll bolt and find some mysterious 'disease' to investigate. I don't want that to happen.

"Do you need a hand?" he asks, shattering the silence. It makes me jump.

"What?"

"To take your skirt off. I guess it's a struggle to get it over that vast behind." Now what do I say? Surprisingly, I've been undressing myself for years with no problems. Or, if you would just walk over here and undo the fastenings you'd see for yourself that it slips off just fine – as would several other items of clothing, if you would just MOVE.

"The hand, although unnecessary, might be appreciated." I hold out my hand to him. House looks at my eyes and then to my hand and back to my eyes again. Suddenly he's all action. He takes my hand and walks me into… the kitchen. We stand by the sink and his suddenly dexterous hands, you know, the same ones that couldn't start a car ten minutes ago, have my button and zip unfastened. He takes a step back and my skirt puddles around my ankles. And that's it. No comments, no groping… he is ogling though… and biting his lip. Am I glad that I went for the black lacy ones this morning – I so nearly went for the plain.

"Time's a ticking, Cuddy. You're the one with a tight…" His head tilts sideways as he looks at me, or rather my panties. "Schedule. Sooner you get on with the soaking, the sooner you can get to opening your gift. Not that I don't appreciate you not ripping off the wrapping… on this occasion, although if you did, you'd be the one sewing the buttons back on before I go back to work, and with your timelines I might have to wait until you're back from work this evening. Unless you want to squeeze another fifteen minute slot from your schedule?"

I've got an answer to one of the problems. It's down to me to initiate this '15 minute-ing' by unwrapping, that is undressing, House first. I can work with that. Presumably and hopefully the 'present' activates when all the packaging is off. I step over my skirt and put a hand on his chest. He gulps. His heart is pounding away.

"Nervous?" I ask. The best form of defence is attack. So my heart is thumping away like a scared rabbit. That does not mean I'm nervous. And even if I was, I wouldn't admit that to him.

"Neek," he says, squeakily, then clears his throat. "Nervous? No. Should I be?" he asks. My hand is still on his chest, so I know he's lying. And he knows I know he's lying. Then again, pedantically speaking I could say no to that question, too. I'm not nervous. I'm terrified. So he could be telling the truth.

"I don't know," I say. "Why would you be?"

"I'm not. Unless you're related to the Black Widow spider and you're going to eat me after copulation to acquire the protein for the progeny." He looks down the front of my blouse. "All things considered, I'll take my chances for the next 15 minutes." He places his cane on the counter then reaches across to the oven and sets the timer. "The clock's ticking," he says. Game still on.

Down to me to open my present then. With that my hands move to his jacket lapels then I quickly change my mind. I root in his jacket pocket and remove his mobile phone. I switch it off and set it on the counter. I do the same with my Blackberry and place it next to his phone. I don't want any coitus interuptus, there won't be time to get started again. They can do without us for 15 minutes. And if he's set an alarm I've foiled that little scheme. I move my hands back to his jacket and push it over his shoulders. It clunks loudly as it hits the floor. What the hell has he got in that thing?

"This '15 minute' thing?" I say, moving my hand slowly down his chest and stomach to his belt buckle. I'm going for his pants first, not only for the symmetry of the thing but because it will be a lot more difficult for him to bolt without them. I undo it slowly, then the button, then the zip. I drag my hand slowly, firmly, deliberately down the front of his pants as I pull his zip open, feeling what's inside. Is this the equivalent of shaking the box before opening it? It already feels impressive. Even less chance of him legging it now. With a twenty odd year gap since we last did this, my memory is a bit hazy on the details but I'm pleased to report that this is another part of House that is non-standard… in a good way, for once.

"What about this '15 minute' thing?" he asks, a bit breathlessly. I'm pleased with myself, it's already an effort for him to speak, his breathing laboured.

"Is there a guarantee with this 'present'?" I ask, as I let his pants drop over his hips. They pool round his ankles. I try not to look down. There's something ludicrous in male legs, even his at this moment, in dark socks and nothing else except boxers - and his shirt and t-shirt. You'd think if he'd planned this he would have done without the t-shirt today. Inevitably, I can't resist the temptation but there is something to distract me before I get to the socks - and I'm not taking about his missing thigh muscle. Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

"Guarantee?" he asks, his voice elevating as he gets to the question mark. That might have something to do with my hand now feeling the 'present' through just the cotton of his boxers. I like unwrapping presents slowly, trying not to damage the paper even though I have no intention of saving the paper – I just screw it up into a ball and throw it in the recycling after. But, back to the matter in hand.

"Yes. Is satisfaction guaranteed?" He nods, biting his lip. I think my hand is doing distracting things to him. "And is the 'present' entirely for me or is it given with the expectation of mutual satisfaction for both parties… at least once?"

"Both!" he gasps out. "Definitely both."

"So what happens if that's achieved with minutes to spare, are the rest of the minutes null and void or can they be used later?" I ask, my hand pressing even more firmly against him. He presses back against me, seeking more.

"No…" his voice hitches "t voooooiddddd," he says, his gaze intense. I don't think I have ever had his undivided attention for this long before.

"Alternatively, what happens if that isn't achieved within the '15 minutes'? Do we over run or reschedule?"

"Plan A," he says on a gasp. Plan A? I'm confused. Does that mean we're on plan B?

"Plan A?" My hand is stroking his length all the way down to his balls. His eyes close.

"Usssse yyyyyourrrrrr aaaaaaaage," he breathes out slowly. Of course, he said that one first – if I'd known he was serious…

"We'd have to reschedule."

"Ok… ay," he says. He gives a mew of disappointment when my hand leaves him. I want his clothes off - NOW. Time to tear off the wrapping paper – forget saving the bow. I'm not aiming for a reschedule. It might take another twenty odd years!

I just catch myself from ripping open his shirt, sending all the buttons flying through the air. Perhaps his comment about sewing all those little, white buttons back on before he returns to work is operating on my subconscious. However, I make quick work of them. The last one undone and I slide his shirt over his shoulders and - damn - I forgot the cuffs. He's now stuck with this shirt behind him, bound by the cuffs. That's his problem. Not that it doesn't give me ideas… but not ones that can be addressed in '15 minutes'.

I move on to his t-shirt. I'm trying to push it up over his head but he's not helping, being preoccupied with trying to get his arms out of his shirt sleeves. I distract myself by moving my hand over his chest feeling the sprinkling of hairs there. He groans. It sends a shiver of desire down my spine.

He manages to shake one hand free from his shirt and now he helps to get the t-shirt over his head. His shirt and t-shirt are now dangling from one wrist but I move on to his boxers. I'm still not entirely convinced that he isn't going to skedaddle. Although you'd think we'd be passed the point of no return at this juncture. Well, obviously, we aren't yet at the point of no return. I could stop this any time I want. Any time. I just have to say no.

I hook my thumbs into his boxers and tug them down carefully, freeing him. He is watching me as I look down at him. He's probably conscious of his scar but, believe me, my eyes are not getting that far.

My, oh my, oh my. This is shaping up into one of the best birthday presents a girl could have.

He reaches out with his unencumbered hand to tilt my face up. He has that cocky look on his face. I am so glad I can conceal exactly how aroused I am. So I'm a little flushed… aright, a lot flushed… probably crimson and my eyes are no doubt dilated to the size of that saucer I broke at the café, I still defy anyone to detect that I'm smouldering from the warmth between my thighs. Anyone!

"Like what you see?" he asks, with the most presumptuous tone I've ever heard him use – and that's going some for him. He knows, of course he knows, and, as much as I want to say something cutting, instead I find myself nodding yes. Then I'm caught up in a whirlwind. I'm in his arms and he lifts me up onto the counter. My shoes clatter to the floor. Looking down, I notice that in this position we are closely aligned.

My blouse is pushed up taking my arms with it. He catches my wrists in it and holds my blouse up with one hand against the cupboard. A token retribution no doubt. He takes advantage of my defenceless state to cup my breast and brush a thumb over my lace covered nipple. I'm trying not to add fuel to his ego but I can't help the small whimper that I breathe out. His advantage does not last long as I wriggle my arms out of my blouse – short sleeves a plus here.

I'm not wearing stockings which just leaves me in bra and panties. His hand snakes round my back, my bra unsnapped in a twinkling – note to self, another example of clothe removal with no fumbling but starting a car was tricky? The bra is thrown over his shoulder and he moves his hands down to my hips. He tugs at my panties and I lever myself up using his shoulders. The panties are off and sent flying over the other shoulder. I am vaguely aware that they land somewhere between the toaster and the coffee maker.

He takes a moment to scan my body lingering over my breasts. Now is a seminal moment. Is this the point where he cuts and runs with perhaps a parting cutting remark? Awkward with a bad leg and trousers wrapped round his ankles – but not impossible to the suitably motivated. When his eyes swing back up to my face instead of a crack about my breast's symmetry, or lack thereof, I was half expecting but hoping he wouldn't make, all I see is… well, apart from the lust is… sorry, I'm hesitating to say it because it seems so out of character… perhaps adoration is too strong a word… awed pleasure? Pleased awe? I'm not sure but it's doing funny things to my insides.

He doesn't say anything, cutting or otherwise. His actions speak for him as he hones in on my breasts, taking one nipple in between his lips and fluttering his tongue across it, sending a jolt of pleasure down my spine and into my lady parts. I moan and I can feel him smile against my breast right before he moves to the other one. He suckles at that one while thumbing my other wet nipple, and the sensation causes me to throw my head back and smack it on the cupboard.

"Ow!" I hadn't intended to break the mood.

"Mwao," he says, round a mouthful of nipple. Does that count as multitasking. I'm glad to see that he can apply his focusing ability, despite distractions, outside of a medical puzzle. I put my hand on the back of his head as reassurance to continue. Then I let my fingers wander through the hairs at the back of his neck.

Then his hands, you know those ones that fumble a car key but not clothes removal. Those hands, that stir up tornados in tea, part my thighs and start stirring me. I don't know about sugar tornadoes but sweet bursts of sensation are spiralling up my spine. I'm moaning. I know I am. I can't help it.

"You like that?" he asks, and I find myself nodding like an idiot, unable to speak. How come he's coherent? "Then you might like this."

He shuffles back a bit – awkwardly, as he's still got his pants round his ankles. He sinks to his knees, and my legs are over his shoulders. Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! His breath is hot against my inner thigh, and I find myself squirming nearer the edge of the counter, trying to get closer. Trying to get him where I need him – does this appear desperate? If cornered, I'll say demanding.

Contact is made. And we have lift off. No slow spirals here, this is a straight up geyser. I can feel his tongue lapping against me and I realize I am no longer the fox. He is. And my analogy breaks down because I don't know what foxes lap at except water and this definitely feels richer and thicker than that – more like cream or melted chocolate. And I'm rambling to myself because I'm struggling for a coherent thought and, what's more, I really don't care.

Take the lord's name in vain all the way to heaven. I'd forgotten how good this is. I'm melting. I'm gripping the edge of the counter to keep from flowing over the edge and plopping onto the floor in a jellied blob. Would that be a case? Doctor House performs cunnilingus on boss until all her bones turn to jelly. Must be some sort of infection because I'm certainly burning up. Imagine writing it up!

He sucks and licks in all the right ways, and I'm sizzlingly close. I'm sure if I flexed my pubococcygeus muscle I could come. Right now. With a screaming orgasm that all my neighbours would hear – to the end of the street. But I want more of a good thing. All because of that mouth and those fingers. Did I mention that his fingers are involved? Sorry forgot – distracted – use your imagination. That arrogant, sarcastic, narcissistic mouth is quiet for once but still active and in control of my every nerve ending and I can feel it all the way from the raised hair on my scalp to the curled toes of my feet.

I look down at 'this' and all of a sudden realize we haven't kissed. Was this deliberate? Is it so long since House has been with a woman other than a hooker that he's forgotten the art of kissing? His mouth is moving over my… what did house call it? Panty hamster? Whatever, we haven't kissed. Suddenly it's the most important thing in the world. I want to be kissed. I need to be kissed. I need to know that House knows who he's with.

I pull him up and wrap my legs round his waist. There's no reluctance on his part. Our mouths meet and he tastes of my warm wetness and something else… intoxicating. His taste infused with mine and I like it. He focuses his tongue on my mouth with the same concentration as he did to my fanny, and I really don't remember it being this good the first time.

We part, and he pulls my hips forward, even closer to the edge of the counter. My 'present' seems to have a mind of its own now but as his intentions are in agreement with mine I'm not complaining. With one - okay, maybe two, quick strokes he is inside me and my arms and legs are wrapped around him, my head in the crook of his neck. This is sublime. Why haven't we been doing this for years? Oh yeah, we've hated each other – or at least were driving each other crazy.

The pace is hurried, as we frantically search for a release to this storm we've brewed. He is slamming into me and he looks down to glance at our joining. Evidence doesn't come any firmer than that. Then, the oven timer goes off. His eyes meet mine – and he almost looks panicked. Surely to God he doesn't think I want to stop? Fortunately his body is going hell for leather for completion, whatever his mind may be thinking. And that suits me just fine. Plan A it is. I have no breath for words so I just grip him tighter with my legs. There's relief in his eyes and we're back to focusing on the thump, slap, bang, slap and bang against each other. I encourage him to move faster, to pound into me harder because it feels so good. But every so often he slows down enough to put in a twist which manages to brush my clit sending lightening bolts of sensation through my body. I've passed the jelly stage and am going for fragmentation. Every cell in my body is about to explode.

"House?" I say, or that's what I'm aiming for.

"Gnurg," he answers.

I want to speak. I need to ask him something but the storm surges and my body begins to tighten around his. Oh God, have I missed this. Not the orgasm. I can achieve that in most any kitchen although I prefer the bedroom or shower room, or well, you get the picture. No . . . the orgasm while wrapped around someone who is thumping into you like there is no tomorrow. Whose super fast, well lubricated, pulsating diagnostic skills know what I need – and is prepared to give it to me. And here comes the tsunami. It is so intense, my back arches with the pleasure and I nearly slip off the counter. House keeps me in place. I think my orgasm triggered his but as it takes a minute or two to come down from my high and, as I haven't opened my eyes yet, I can't be certain. My orgasm was that intense. I'm wracked with after shudders, and panting for breathe - as is he.

Finally, I stop gasping although I'm still breathing deeply and I open my eyes to be met by a bright blue gaze full of wonder. This is quickly masked to be replaced by smugness.

"You like that?" he asks, but it's practically a statement. I'm beyond being cagy or giving a damn.

"Yes. That was a wonderful Birthday present." We are silent for a few more minutes. I am conscious of the fact that time is ticking away and I have another appointment but I don't want to break the afterglow. I'm also wondering of the possibility of … more.

"House?"

"Mmmm?"

"We overran."

"Mmmm."

"Does this mean were into Plan A?"

"Mmmm?"

"Can we reschedule this later? Only I really do have another meeting."

"Mmmmmmmm." He says in a 'let me see' tone. He lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak when I hear a car pull up on the drive. All too aware of my naked state and my nearest wearable clothes being in the bedroom, I'm pushing House off me, heedless of his bad leg or the fact his pants are still round his ankles. I scrabble off the counter and sprint down the hall leaving House to cover his modesty and deal with my nanny how he may.


	4. Chapter 4

_Many apologies for the delay. The reason for this was beyond my control. Trying not to go into rant mode, I will only say that my 'communications' provider, on Xmas Eve, canceled my phone line, removed my broadband and deleted my email address. I only got it all back instead of a hiatus helper for over Xmas/ New Year it might just make it as a hiatus helper :-) Better late than never, right? Enjoy._

Chapter 4

15 minutes I've sat here being totally unproductive. Unless you count twirling a biro as something productive. For 15 minutes I've sat here tapping my ballpoint pen on the table, inverting it between my fingers then clicking the top with my thumb. Twirl and repeat. I think it's substituting for a daisy. Tap, I want him. Twirl, click, I want him not. Twirl, tap, he wants me. Twirl, click, he wants me not. Twirl, tap, I want more. Twirl, click, don't be stupid. Twirl, tap, I want more. Twirl, click, it would be ridiculous. Twirl, tap, I want more. Twirl , click, don't push your luck. Prior to this I'd spent 5 minutes chatting to a head of department about a problem that had nothing to do with House but previous to that, I'd been twirling my pen again.

House, with those tea stirring hands, has stirred up a real storm of… not of sweet, sugary memories but of relationship muck which has been settling quietly for years – created a veritable tornado. And what's come up out of the murky depths is a thick, cloudy wodge of hormones, emotions and... thoughts. If he's done the same to himself he'll be panicking by now. I'm panicking now.

Which questions do I answer first, well, not answer but think about with a view to answering? Do I want him? Does he want me? Do I want more? Does he want more? Will he give more? Will I give more? What about Rachel? What about work? And, first and foremost do I want to reschedule? Which brings me back to the twirling ballpoint.

The answer is yes, of course it's yes. Who wouldn't want more? I've been having sparks of sensation rustling though my spinal nerve endings all afternoon. I've had spontaneous spasms of my Kegel muscles ALL afternoon. The juices are flowing. Despite the fact I managed to shower at home, having left House to the tender mercies of the nanny - He's a smart boy, I knew he'd cope… okay, I admit that wasn't my first thought as I made a hasty exit but, having reached the sanctuary of my bedroom, I saw no reason to rush back. I was already running late so, I rescheduled my next meeting, took a relatively leisurely shower feeling all the sensitive skin, I mean all the sensitive skin… several times… I digress. As I was saying, despite the shower and clean underwear - and what happened to that in the kitchen is another question niggling at the back of my mind but which isn't getting much processing time because the other questions have more priority. So, despite the shower and the clean underwear my panties are… moist and sticky.

I blame the board meeting, which I did make it back for, despite House whinging all the way back once he'd realised that we'd abandoned his bike at the café – believe me the whinging was preferable to the uncomfortable silence that had proceeded it. The careful avoidance of eye contact. Oh yes, much more preferable. Which is probably why he did it. Anyway board meeting, Whathisface droning on and on, where else is a girl's mind going to wander when distracted by an 'after tremor' but to the reason for it.

So, back to my question, 'Who wouldn't want more?'. When my mind is thinking with a full blood supply, it's the complications that loom large, as opposed to House… take that loom large anyway you want. I could wrack my brains from now until doomsday, it's all irrelevant if House doesn't or won't. So, do I leave the next move to him? Or will it look like I'm not interested if I don't? There's probably double irony in this situation if House is thinking the same thing. I suppose he made his move and he didn't back off… I guess that counts as his first move. Is that as far as he is prepared to go? I'm fairly sure he agreed to reschedule, I'm a bit hazy about the details from around then – I think I lost several neurons in the mind blowing orgasm that followed. He definitely agreed to plan A – it was just a question of when to reschedule.

So, after loads of unproductive thought processes it appears there is only one way to go – I will make the next move. It's my birthday, House gave me a present and I want all of it damn it. And… AND… I want it now.

*.*.*.*.*.*.

I can't get my car started. I know it will start if only I can get my key in the ignition but right now you'd think I had no hand to eye co-ordination. I'm flushing. House is looking at me curiously. I know he is. I'm deliberately not looking at him but I can 'feel' him… looking. He's going to make a sarky comment any second now. It's payback after all. I can't think of anything to say to segue over the fumbling. I have one question front and foremost in my mind and nothing else is going to get said until I can ask it. And I don't want to ask it until the car is moving… and the doors have locked automatically. I'll then have a captive audience. There got it. The car starts first time, bless it. I look over and give House an apologetic smile. He smirks back.

I pull out of the car park and I ask what I hope is my first question, well first question since I caught him at the elevator on his way out and asked him if he wanted a lift back to his bike. He'd looked startled, a little awkward but not panicked. I saw his brain go into calculating mode but he nodded once and here we are. There's no point delaying, it's awkward whatever way and this gives us more time for negotiation if necessary. The only problem is that I can't see his face apart from the odd glance as I drive.

"House… about the rest of your… present…" I start.

"You don't want it." He says in such a resigned way, rather than as a question.

"Why wouldn't I want it?" He opens his mouth to answer, no doubt with the same list of complications as I have with several more added, but I don't let him get a word in. "I was hoping you'd be free to reschedule it for this evening." There's a pause. I think he's staring at me like I've grown a second head. Have I done something unusual? It's nice to get birthday presents on the day after all… unless, of course, it's a year's subscription to something. The pause seems to last forever.

"I'm free," he squeaks. "Cuddy!" he squeals louder this time. That last was because the car swerved.

"I thought I saw something in the road. Sorry." I swallow. Second question.

"Shall we go straight to my place then?"

"What about my bike?"

"We can pick it up later."

"You won't want to come out later. Not once you've settled Rachel for the night." Unfortunately, that's true. However, I didn't want to have him make his own way to my house. He might get cold feet and never turn up. Unfortunately, there probably isn't much choice unless I kidnap him at this point and just drive home… Tempting though that is, as thoughts of kidnap and restrained wrists from earlier swirl through my head, unfortunately, that may not get me the result I want.

I'm pacing my living room. When I dropped House at his bike he said he'd be over shortly. It's now been two hours and he hasn't shown up. Has he lost his nerve? Was he just winding me up? Has something happened? He could have rung. I should probably just let it go as one of life's missed chances but… I don't want to. I want my birthday present… now! Should I phone? Does that look desperate/ nagging/ concerned/ pissed? I sit back down with my journal, as I've already done a dozen times this evening and I'm still not passed the second paragraph of the first article.

An hour later and I admit to myself that he's not coming… in any sense of the word, here tonight. I knew if we went for a reschedule it would be fatal. Now it will take years – if ever. I sigh. I shouldn't be greedy. At least I got part of my present – and it was a good part. I hope he doesn't make me regret it later. As far as I can tell, he's never told anybody about our first encounter so I've no reason to think that he'll yell this from the balcony. But House is unpredictable.

There's no point staying up any longer. I might as well go to bed - on my own as usual! I wander through to the bathroom to clean my teeth. I can't decide whether to be mad, upset or resigned. I watch the water spiralling down the plug hole and it reminds me of the sugar tornado in House's tea. I sigh – again. I'm obviously destined to keep being reminded of what I'm missing. A passion tornado has ripped through my normal, settled environment leaving a trail of… is it destruction? It's certainly left its mark but negatively? I can't say that it's bad just powerful and moving and different. And I wanted more of it.

I get ready for bed. I debate whether to wear my old comfortable pyjamas or the little, black, satin negligee I bought for a special occasion. I guess my birthday counts as a special occasion. I'm settling myself into bed, eyeing my bedside drawer debating the benefits of a little self-gratification to ease the disappointment of other lost gratification when I become aware of a strange smell. Actually, it smells like chinese food…

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

A man is scrabbling away in a kitchen cupboard. Not any man, it's House. I'd recognise that leather jacket any where. I'll put this brass candlestick down now. There's a bag of take away on the table so you'd think that House would be looking for a cupboard with crockery in but he's looking in the one with my household cleaners.

"I have some green tea that would go better with the chinese than bleach," I say.

"I'm after some Gunk," he responds.

"The capital ribs using some industrial strength colorant?" He holds up his hands covered in black, oily filth. "The degreaser is in the garage. I'll go get it." I'm suspending mad, angry and pissed until I find out what's going on.

I'm holding out the degreaser to him I notice he's shaking. "Low blood sugar," he says, "hence the chinese. For some reason I missed lunch. The chain came off my bike and I had to push it to the gas station because my phone's here…"

'No, it isn't,' I think, but I automatically look to where I put his phone earlier.

"I thought you picked it up..." And, naturally, it's now that my eyes alight on something under my breadmaker… where it must have got knocked earlier this afternoon. I pull it out and hand it over. Okay, I suppose I'll remove mad and angry from my list of grievances.

"I was too busy covering your retreat and my assets. I would say your ass but that's so big even I can't cover that," he retorts. I'm still swithering over the pissed.

*.*.*.*.*.*

He's cleaned, fed, watered and we are now in that awkward stage of 'now what?'. I'm cradling a cup of jasmine tea trying not to make it look like I'm using it as a prop. Is it too late now? Does he want to go home? Then why come here? Is his leg paining him? Then why come here? Well, he's here… Oh, I get it. It's my present, I guess I use it when I'm ready. Under normal circumstances it would be way passed my bedtime and I do like sex in the morning. Such an invigorating start to the day. But these aren't normal circumstances and there's no way I'm postponing this. We might get hit by a meteor.

My present is back in its box, so to speak. By my reckoning, if I admit to being 38, we must have 20 minutes left. So do I want to 'waste' some of that time getting it back out of its box? Is it an option to start where we left off?

"My present put itself back in the box. Do we start again or start from where we left off?" I ask him.

"Your choice."

"Wow, so amenable."

"That's me," he says. I smirk – oh, the satire. The kitchen table is suitably handy but I really don't want to do this in the kitchen again – if there was another occasion... But now, I grab his hand and head for my bedroom.

"Hey. Hey! Cripple here."

"What? Am I moving too fast for you?" Okay, so I might be feeling a tiny twinge of guilt for practically doing a route march down my hall but I've been waiting for hours, Hours! And for the last half an hour I have had to watch him eat - while I drooled. You decide over what!

"The clock's not ticking yet." His voice hits a high note at the end of that sentence. Probably due to me ripping his shirt open – sod the buttons.

"The clock's not ticking until my present is back out of its box. Clothes off. Now!" I know, I know. There's much to be said for the foreplay of undressing – but I want skin on skin contact for as long as possible. I start pushing his shirt off. However, House, obviously wary of getting his hands caught again, intercepts me.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says, grappling with his cuff buttons. "If you're so impatient start undressing yourself." Like that's going to take more than 2 nanoseconds dressed as I am only in my little black number. Still I comply, while House manages his shirt and t-shirt. House reaches for his belt but fumbles whilst staring at me… now who's drooling? I reach to help him but he shakes his head. What?

"Laces!" he croaks, looking down. Right. Laces. I'm down on my knees undoing his trainers when his pants, unhelpfully in this instance, drop down. I look up to scold, to be met by a rather glorious sight – at head height. My head height, that is. I hadn't realized his underpants had also been pushed down. My brain freezes and my breathing stops… before they both restart with a whoosh as I reach for his penis - his very erect penis.

His very erect penis with my lips round it – and a gratifying groan… and a bit of a whimper as he hits his head on the wall. Revenge is sweet… actually, it's musky and warm and throbbing and I'm swirling my tongue round it mimicking a cyclone. I think his breathing is getting harsher and more laboured but it's difficult to hear through the noise of the blood thundering through my ears.

He's cupping my head in his hands trying to pull me up and I'm vaguely conscious of the fact that my knees are hurting and maybe I've been down here for some time. Doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself, but we are minute restricted here so I guess I should be grateful that House is exhibiting some sort of control. But now he's kissing me and I realise that once again we've launched ourselves into sex without the preliminaries.

Now it's my turn to be pinned and I hardly notice the chill down my back as I'm pressed against the wall. The kisses become long and languorous and I'm losing myself in the moment. House is slowing this down and I'd love to have a prolonged session of love making… I mean sex, but I don't have the luxury of time - unless House is altering the terms of his present, but a discussion of that is out of the question at the moment. So, I lift my leg to rest it over his hip hoping he'll get the message.

The chances of a long, slow screw against the wall are slim, given House's leg – I shouldn't think he could support my weight for long. However, I'm not going to need much more stimulation to push me into orgasm. I can feel I'm on an upward spiral. This is one of those occasions where the first orgasm will just be a plateau – a springboard to an even bigger orgasm – provided I can get the right stimulation from House in the time. If we can make it to the bedroom after this orgasm I'm sure I can reach the big one before my present is used up.

I wonder if House has been monitoring the time. I don't have a clock in the hall. Maybe he doesn't know how long we've been going at this any more than I do and I can get a few more minutes out of this. House is lifting me further up the wall, positioning me so he can get the angle right. He's right there, and he's pushing and in he slides and, God, that's a wonderful sensation. I can feel myself clenching round him, welcoming him back. I'm embarrassingly close for not a lot of effort on his part but, once again, I really don't give a damn.

He's pumping into me now slowly, and he's hitting my cervix giving that deep throbbing ache. I'm clinging to his shoulders and biting my lip trying not to make too much noise, conscious of the fact we are in my hall and I don't want to wake Rachel at this rather critical moment, while still making enough encouraging noises to let House know he's doing the right thing. I just need more of it, right there, just a few more… and I'm sailing over the bar in a deep satisfying orgasm.

House disconnects us and let's me slide down the wall until my feet are on the floor. He's stroking me gently even though I'm sweaty and sticky. He's looking at me… hopefully. I take a couple more deep breathes, grab his hand and set off down the hallway once again – only slightly slower than before. And he's still got his damn socks on!

We bounce onto my bed and we're both smiling. Practically giggling. He slides over me and brushes my hair away from my face. His watch is still on and it catches on my hair. He takes it off and puts it down next to my clock. We both notice the time and then look at each other.

"I lost track of time," he says. "We'll say you've got 15 minutes left." He's lying of course – he didn't lose track of time. He's also being generous but I'm not complaining in this instance. We start kissing first this time. No gentle exploratory kisses for us. Straight in with the hard stuff, tongue duelling, tonsil tickling, lip swelling force of nature kissing. We're writhing, sweating, squirming, intermingling. We're trying to get closer but the only way to get closer is if we swap skin. He's nibbling my ear, nuzzling my neck, sucking my breasts, licking my belly button, stroking my calves, tickling my thighs and I'm stirred up into a tempest. I push his shoulder and I'm on top manoeuvring myself into position and in he slides. Another glance at the clock – we have 5 minutes left. God, this is going to be tight – the time that is.

I'm riding him like there's a pack of wolves on my heels. He's biting his lip, eyes firmly closed trying to hold back. My muscles are tightening and tightening and tightening but my orgasm is elusive. The clock is drawing my eye which probably isn't helping - I've only got a minute to go. House must sense my… distress because his hands move from my hips to stroke my breasts, then down to my thighs. He's circling my clit and it sends bursts of sensation up my spine but it just ratchets up the tension another notch.

The time is up and House looks at me. God, we can't stop now!

"42," I say, admitting to my real age. He nods in acceptance. That gives me another 4 minutes. And that seems to be enough to relax my mind which allows the release of tension. My body snaps forward with the force of my orgasm. It's a force 12 gale with wind gusts up to 100 miles an hour. It's like my insides have sneezed and they keep sneezing, and sneezing. The shock waves are going from head to toe and meeting each other on the way back. My throat is so tight I can't breathe let alone scream. It's got to be one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had.

I collapse onto House's chest sucking in great mouthfuls of air. We are extremely sweaty and are stuck together in several places which will probably be uncomfortable when we separate. I become aware that House is stroking my back. I am not going to move. It will break the moment and I want to enjoy this for as long as possible. If we move, reality will set in and off House will go. Other than now stroking my hair he's not moving either, yet we must be minutes passed the allotted 'present' time.

Inevitably, there is a whimpering over the baby monitor and there is no choice but to move. We slowly unstick ourselves. We glance at each other but neither of us is brave enough to say anything. Rachel's whimpers are edging towards cries. I give House an apologetic look, then turn to deal with my daughter. I suppose the timing could have been worse!


	5. Chapter 5

_This is the final chapter to this story - I hope it has helped pass the time through the long hiatus. Thank you to all those who have taken the time to comment, I do appreciate it._ I hope you enjoy the ending :-)

*.*.*.*.*.

House has his jeans and t-shirt back on. His shirt is in the trash can – oops. He appears to be searching for his socks. I'm leaning on the door frame, feeding Rachel.

"I think one went under the bed," I say. He glances at me, then peers under the bed. He uses his cane to drag it out. He holds it up and looks at me enquiringly.

"Did you look behind the radiator?" He shakes his head, looking a little bemused and limps across the room. He fishes a sock out from behind the radiator and comes back to sit on the bed. He puts his socks on then needs to pass me to get into the hall for his trainers. I give him room and watch as he locates a trainer under the hall table and finds the other at the other end of the hall. How did it get all the way down there?

I'm desperate for something to say. To get him to stay. To do it again. It can't stop with just 15 minutes… okay, 42 minutes… plus. I want more. He's just whetted my appetite. I can't let him walk away from me, again. He's got one trainer on and he's starting on the other.

"I'm not completely satisfied," I say. He stills. He looks up. God, is his expression a picture!

"What?" Oh, almost déjà vu - the great House comeback. I've caught him off guard, again. I might almost feel smug if I had the time… and my heart wasn't thumping nineteen to the dozen.

"You said satisfaction guaranteed – but I'm not 'completely' satisfied," I say. The initial shock has worn off but now he's looking at me uncertainly.

"You looked pretty satisfied to me after the TWO orgasms you had this evening. Are you saying you faked them?" Aww, a bit of male wounded pride coming out there? Surprisingly, that's not what I'm aiming for.

"No, I'm not complaining about the orgasms – they were satisfactory."

"Satisfactory! They were way better than satisfactory," he says, forcefully. Did I touch a nerve there? Of course they were better than satisfactory, that's not the point.

"It doesn't matter how much better than satisfactory they were if the overall experience wasn't." I'm sure he wants more, the same as me. We just need an excuse because neither of us is prepared to admit anything, yet.

"How can the overall experience be lacking if you attained a better than satisfactory orgasm? Several better than satisfactory orgasms."

"There was fumbling… and clashing of teeth… and the timings were wrong… and… AND you still had your socks on." Come on House, stop focusing on your performance and think. The blood supply to his brain must be back to normal by now… or is it?

"Fumbling? **Fumbling**? You're complaining about fumbling? What do you expect for a first time in 25 years experien…" he trails off as the penny drops. My heart is in my mouth. I swallow, awaiting his next move. I pretend I'm concentrating on Rachel as she finishes her bottle but I'm focused on him. There's a lengthy pause. His mouth keeps opening as if he's about to speak but nothing comes out. I think my heart has stopped half a dozen times. Finally, "Practise makes perfect?"

"Yes, it does." I breathe out. There's another pause. Rachel finishes her bottle and I take her back to her room to change her. House is leaning against the door frame watching me as I lay her in her crib. At least he hasn't bolted yet.

"Have you got another 15 minute gap in your schedule?" he asks. I'm glad he waited until I wasn't holding Rachel.

*.*.*.*.*

I turn away from him and grab hold of the headboard. I take a quick look over my shoulder. He is grinning like a Cheshire cat. He grasps my hips and enters me again, moving faster now than he was before. I push back against him, matching him thrust for thrust. He is so wonderfully deep inside me that I swear all my organs are being moved aside to make room for him.

His hands on my hips are moving me in the way he wants, swivelling me with every thrust. Our accelerated pace is almost enough to make me come again, but not quite. I know I could if I could just reach down between my thighs, but he's slamming into me with the fury of a hurricane and I need both hands firmly grasping the headboard to stay upright. The storm surge hits and he's coming inside me, filling me with that long forgotten warmth for the third time today as, yet again, we fail to take any precautions. Some medical professionals we are. I guess we trust each other.

Maybe I should have mentioned that I haven't been taking the pill since I got Rachel. The chances of dating, yet alone copulation, seeming remote. Biologically speaking the chances of conception are extremely low at this time of the month but still, I suppose I should mention it… later. Now, I have the opportunity to move a hand and help myself, so to speak. It doesn't take much, just a few swirls of my clit with my fingers and I'm coming for the fifth time today. And, yes, I know orgasm when the cervix is awash with sperm will suck them into the womb increasing the chances of conception, but I really don't give a damn.

He mutters something, which I can't quite catch. I think I hear the words God, fucking and amazing, but I could be wrong. He collapses over me, and our sweaty bodies, are stuck with one another, again.

"Cuddy?" he whispers in my ear, breathing rapidly.

"Yes, House?" I ask, as equally out of breath.

"How old are you again?"

*.*.*.*.*

An early morning in May - 30 hours later.

The living room in Cuddy's house.

15 minutes – that's how long we've been slow dancing here – completely naked. I've never been more relieved that I invested in decent curtains. I've never been more grateful that Rachel is a sound sleeper.

15 minutes turned into 42 minutes and 42 minutes into 15 hours then 30, I gave him the day off… which stretched into another night. House was very, very, very sorry that my present wasn't perfect. He agreed that we should practice regularly until my birthday next year. It was somewhere around 3:15 a.m. this morning that the rules for the '15 minutes' practice sessions were established. We are to practice weekly. Never have I been happier that House is ignoring me - we are currently seven weeks in advance. And we still haven't got the timing right.

"Do you think we should practice more tomorrow?" House asks. Did I mention we are completely naked and dancing in my living room? We slow danced to the B52s 'Love Shack' – House winced slightly, and not because of his leg, or because we were complete out of sync with the music. He said nothing. Who knew that he knew how to keep his mouth shut. However, when it finished House decided it was his turn to pick a song. I think he was trying for some kind of retribution.

"Wouldn't want to waste the practice we have put in so far," I reply. Rules were made to be broken, right?

"Nothing like hands on experience for fixing things in the… mind," he says, his hands skimming over my ass. I return the gesture... any excuse to touch him there.

"Little lady I think there's something on your mind…" he sings to me, doing his best Meatloaf impression… Pity he didn't pick Elvis… complete with swivelling hips.

"If you are referring to your hand on my ass, you need to be careful. Very careful." I say, giving him a meaningful look.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and pulls me closer. I can't help smiling. His latest erection is pressed between us, brushing against my stomach. "You know what to say, But you never know how, You can keep your mouth shut, Because it doesn't really matter right now…"

"_You_ can keep your mouth shut!" I say, pressing my fingers to his lips. Not that I mean it. Who doesn't want to be serenaded? Especially as he sings… satisfactorily.

"…there are so many things that I wish I could say, well I struggle with words but they put up a fight…" he continues. Now I'm worried. I only vaguely remember the lyrics to this song but I don't think we should go there… yet. He continues.

"And you say nothing at all, Well I couldn't have said it better myself, Tonight the conversation takes the fall, Just love me like you love nobody else…" I try to silence him with a kiss. He breaks away from me and I resign myself to more singing. Instead he whispers a few words in my ear.

"Can you spare 15 minutes?" I shake my head. He looks astounded, probably because he block booked my entire schedule for the next 12 months to say 'practice session with House'. Good thing I keep a backup.

"My schedule is always booked solid at this time in the morning… for sleeping," I whisper back, smiling. He smiles back as we both start dancing toward the bedroom.

"You just lie back and have sweet dreams then," he says. Looks like we're heading for eight weeks in advance.

*.*.*.*.

Somehow we got the timing wrong again. Who knew that 15 minutes would be such a tricky time to attain? Just as well he booked all those practice sessions.

*.*.*.*.*****.*.*.*.*.

The End – thank you for reading.

*.*.*.*.*****.*.*.*.*.

Gunk – sorry don't know if this is a brand name in the US. Swarfega is another one from over here. Insert the brand of your choice or just degreaser if that makes sense to you.

*.*.*.*.

'Couldn't Have Said It Better' by Meatloaf

BOY:  
And you said nothing at all  
Well I couldn't have said it better myself  
Tonight the conversation takes the fall  
Just love me like you love nobody else

Little lady  
I think there's something on your mind  
I've known you long enough to know  
The words are not that hard to find

And the harder you try  
And the longer you go  
Well there's nothing but love  
In those eyes anymore  
You know what to say  
But you never know how  
You can keep your mouth shut  
Because it doesn't really  
Matter right now

I will guide you all the way  
Because i know exactly  
What you're trying to say

You have the right  
To remain silent  
I'll get the lights  
You get that smile

And you say nothing at all  
Well I couldn't have said it better myself  
Tonight the conversation takes the fall  
Just love me like you love nobody else

I see the angels  
They're standing right outside your door

GIRL:  
They're watching over me  
They're watching over us all

BOY  
You can send them home tonight  
Because you won't need them anymore

GIRL:  
In your arms  
I think i've found  
The safest place to fall

BOTH:  
When i step in the door and i stare at your face  
there are so many things that i wish i could say  
well i struggle with words but they put up a fight  
you can keep your mouth shut  
because it doesn't really matter tonight

I will guide you  
All the way (tonight)  
Because I know exactly  
What you're trying to say

GIRL:  
You have the right  
To remain silent  
I'll get the lights  
You get that smile

BOTH:  
And you say nothing at all  
Well I couldn't have said it better myself  
Tonight the conversation takes the fall  
Just love me like you love nobody else

BOY:  
And I know you feel the same

BOTH:  
You've been searching for the words  
Now you know what to say

BOY:  
Just say nothing  
Don't say a word  
Silence is gold

GIRL:  
Don't say a word

BOY:  
Shhh

BOTH:  
This is the moment we've been waiting for (ohh yeah!)

GIRL:  
If I exercise my right

BOY:  
I will take your body language

BOTH:  
And hold it against you tonight

BOY:  
And I know you feel the same

BOTH:  
I've wondered all my life  
If this moment comes  
Would I know what to say

BOY & GIRL (GIRL IN "()"):  
Then you say nothing at all  
(So many times I stumbled on the words that I wanted to say)  
You said nothing at all  
(So many thoughts that I should have just let my heart explain)  
You said nothing at all  
(So many ways we could turn the words around)  
You said nothing at all  
(So many nights our hearts came crashing to the ground)  
You said nothing at all  
(So many dreams that are finally coming true)  
Well I could'nt have said it better myself  
(Now you finish me off when  
you finish my thoughts the way you do)

CHORUS OUT


End file.
